


Of Song Birds in Silks

by Darian_MacGyver



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Age Difference, Episode Tag, Episode: 1x02 Four Marks, Geralt is Grumpy Old Man, Guilty Geralt, He Just Does Not Look It, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hypothermia, M/M, Not Beta Read, Pre-Slash, Sharing Body Heat, Sharing Clothes, The Author Still Regrets Nothing, Twink Jaskier, Young Jaskier
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:15:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22383160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darian_MacGyver/pseuds/Darian_MacGyver
Summary: Just few more hours, not even a whole day and he will finally have his peace back.The little lark would choose to flutter of to sing somewhere else, leaving him be.Geralt didn’t need his company.He needed absolutely no one and it would stay that way.Forever.My version of what happened after the end of the episode, in which Geralt and Jaskier met for the first time. And making assumption about the age Jaskier must have been back then.Now proofread by Kyn Moonlight.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 30
Kudos: 246





	1. Along Came a Lark

**Author's Note:**

> I am planning on this one to have multiple chapters. The final number of those and the entire length of it, depending solely on my muse not dying premature death. I also really have to stop writing these things in middle of the night right before the exams. Its a bad habit that should not be cultivated further.  
> Please let me know what you think.

The bard refused to leave him alone.

Walking, almost skipping happily next to him, while Geralt rode on top of Roach.

Holding his new musical instrument half in awe, like a demented squirrel who had recently acquired a big and very shiny tree nut. Strumming on the lute, and the Witcher’s nerves, both at the same time. Playing pieces of half written melodies on it and switching between them suddenly, after he had finished singing that dreadful and completely untrue song about what just happened to them.  
He had stayed, when the elves let them finally go, choosing surprisingly not to slit their throats, like the Witcher had fully expected them to do.

It seemed this day was going to be full of unexpected and unpleasant things, and it was still barely afternoon, so there could be still more to come. Maybe there was a hungry Manticore, hiding behind the next turn of the road that was sloping into a gentle hill?  
It would be just Geralt’s luck if the situation turned to even worse.

Any normal and sane person would run as fast as they could, leaving only a cloud of dust beyond them as a reminder of their former presence. But not apparently this annoying little song bird that was grating at the Witcher’s nerves with each separate note after another.  
Maybe the, so far only imagined Manticore, that still refused to show up in real life, would prefer a small snack instead of full meal the hulking Witcher could offer her?

No such luck.

The road was completely empty and monster free, as far as he could see or hear with his enhanced senses.  
So he was stuck with the bard.

Who had loudly proclaimed that he now owed Geralt his precious and soon to be gloriously famous life. And how he could not possibly leave, until he had repaid the supposed greatest depth, that had ever been created upon this fortuitous day. That would surely became legendary, in the reflection of the bards self proclaimed future fame.

Also informing the Witcher of the exact way he would do so. And not in monetary way, since such things were not eternal and riches could be lost as quickly as they had been gained in the first place.

Geralt translated it inside his head, into the bard being completely broke and scrapping at the end of the barrel of proverbial ideas.  
If nothing else could be said about the little bardling he had seemed to have almost unnatural capacity of his lungs. Especially when it came to long flowery speeches and weird ideas and terminology about what was supposed to be a reward and what punishment.  
The said “reward” being a bright idea of Jaskier repaying him by writing songs about his heroic deeds, instead of paying him with something else of an actual value. Until the whole world would be aware of him, as the famous White Wolf of Rivia the greatest Witcher and professional monster slayer who had ever lived.

Fixing his unfortunate, and surely undeserved reputation as a feared and infamous Butcher of Blaviken.

Making the local folk, instead spiting on him and throwing stones to cheer his name whenever he had visited their humble village to save them from the monsters that had been terrorizing their otherwise peaceful happy lives.

Which they would be able to return to, once Geralt had dispatched of the threat.

The said White Wolf almost snorted at the delusional image the young man started to paint and quickly covered the sound that half escaped him against his will, with an air vibrating deep growl a real life wolf would have not been ashamed of.  
Unfortunately it had not the desire effect like it was supposed to.

In the past when he had used it, many times it managed to scare off anything alive in his vicinity. The bard didn’t even blink and just continued to ramble on further nonsense.

Maybe the elves hit the younger man harder to the head that it seemed on the first glance, causing him permanent brain damage?  
Because instead of running and screaming in fear, like all the others had done the bard was still stubbornly sticking to his side, worse than pine resin to a bedroll, after spending night at a forest clearing.  
Geralt truly hated when that happened.

He had never been able to scrub it all out completely, no matter how much lye soap he would use. The dust and pieces of dead vegetation always ended up glued to those patches of material, where it soaked inside the fabric.

If the young man proved to be anything like that, the Witcher would have to put a real effort to scare him off from following him and Roach like a lost puppy on the Path.

Witchers were supposed to travel alone.

That was about only thing about their kind that was universally known to everyone who had ever heard of them and also probably the only truthful one as well. The general population of the Continent had sometimes very weird misconceptions about how exactly the Witchers were supposed to look or act.

Among the most wild theories, were the ones including either horns or tentacles. That they have all been supposedly hiding under their clothing.

Sometimes even both.

The image getting more or less distorted, usually depending on the price of ale at the local pub. The lower it was, the more animal traits and appendices were included in the inaccurate descriptions.

Eskel’s weird taste in bed partners also did not help much with the dissuasion of the horned theory. Nor did Lambert’s sense of humor for that matter, who loved collecting the lists of all the descriptions and sometimes tried to disguise himself according to them.

Geralt once ended by accident being hired to kill him thanks to that weird habit, when a traveling merchant thought there was some kind of a magical beast sleeping near the well, guarding it so no one was allowed to use it. It turned out Lambert had gotten drunk and was sleeping his bender off there. Snoring so loudly, thanks to the, by mutations increased lung capacity, that the ground around him seemed to vibrate. It was some kind of strange echo, caused by the proximity of the deep hollow stone well.

After laughing himself almost out of breath at the sight. Geralt went back to the merchant, informing him that he had mortally wounded the beast which unfortunately managed to flee so it could die in hiding somewhere. And since there was no proof in a form of severed head the Witcher agreed to waive the pay for its kill.

Every one was happy and he and Lambert after some brotherly teasing on Geralt’s part has parted ways to follow the Path separately. Each on his own as was traditional, with only their respective horses as a company.

It had been always that way and even after the attack on the Kaer Morhen and destruction of the School of the Wolf leaving only few alive, and it still remained so.

The survivors of their Guild, choosing to keep following the code of their ancient, and now nearly extinct order. To honor all their fallen brothers and those young boys who did not survive the Trial of the Grasses. It would be an insult in the face of their ultimate sacrifice not to do so.

The other main reason was, that the Path was not easy nor kind to a normal human.  
To the Witchers either for that matter, but they had at least a chance against the horrors roaming trough the lands and killing anything in their way.

It was the sole reason for their creation after all, at the beginning those long lost ages when humans were first brought to this world from the old one. The multiple mutations giving them advantages and tools for such tasks. Making them stronger, faster, more resilient and most importantly much harder to kill.

Those who tried to emulate the Witchers lives, ended usually dead pretty fast by most gruesome ways imaginable.  
Their soft flesh and fragile bones being crushed between sharp claws and even sharper teeth, serving as a meal to the very things they tried to slay, to prove their worth as professional monster killers for hire.

The world outside the main human settlements was remaining despite all the efforts, mostly a cruel dirty place that still belonged to its original inhabitants.

In no possible way was it suited for coltish bards with soft hands only callused by strumming musical instruments and wide opened cornflower blue eyes, looking for adventures and heroes dressed in shinning armor like they stepped right out of the songs.  
Those eyes would soon lose their mischievous spark, the smooth rounded cheeks with remains of the last of baby fat, sinking in from the cruel reality.

Right now they were still reminding to everyone who had eyes that their owner could be barely called an adult. There was no possible way the bard was older than eighteen. True adult by all human standards, he could technically already have a wife and family of his own, but compared to Geralt’s advanced years the difference in their ages was almost obscene.

In the rare occasions when the need for a human touch became unbearable and Geralt chose to quench his thirst for it, in the arms of a hired whore, he tried not to think about their different life spans too closely.

It would surely ruin the mood if he had started to think about the fact, that the middle aged woman he was burying himself over and over into as deep as he possibly could, was young enough to be his granddaughter or great granddaughter.  
And he wasn’t even the oldest Witcher alive, quite the opposite actually being one of the last Witchers ever created, he was among the youngest.

That honor belonged to Vesemir, who had at least three more centuries over Geralt’s barely one.  
The sudden unexpected thought about Jaskier actually meeting face to face with his old training Master and current head of their Guild, almost made him chuckle out loud.

Almost.

There was no way to predict who out of those two would look more bewildered over the existence of the other one. Fortunately the ruins of the Kaer Morhen keep were the Witchers wintered each year was remote enough for that to never happening.  
Further thoughts on the topic were interrupted by a sudden change of the air pressure that made his skin prickle slightly, informing him that there was possibility of a storm in not so distant future.

Normally the Witcher would with such warning in advance find some shelter for himself and his faithful mare, but not today.  
It was like some higher power decided to help him with his plan of getting his unwanted companion to leave out of his own free will.  
His personal discomfort for the night would be small price to pay for that.

The young bard unused to such hard conditions will find pretty soon that heated up inns and real beds are much better for him than camping in middle of nowhere while being exposed to the elements.

The village where Geralt planned to stop by for the night was still several miles away, they could theoretically make it before the storm hit them, if they were quick enough and the Witcher would allow the bard to ride behind him on the horse, but the younger man could not possibly know that.

The sun was already slowly turning red and Geralt could use as an excuse for their early stop, that he wanted to go hunt for some dinner before it fully set, in the nearby forest.

The Witcher squeezed his thighs around the mare’s flanks and Roach came to a full stop without single verbal command. Jaskier continued to walk several more paces before realizing he was going on his own and finally turning to face Geralt with a puzzled expression. His brows temporally furrowing with wrinkles, that would not become permanent for at least a decade or two.

“Is something wrong?”

The Witcher climbed gracefully from the saddle before choosing to respond him.  
“We are making a camp here for tonight.”

The bard opened his mouth in a protest silently several times before finally finding the words again.  
“But....but you said we are going to stay at the inn tonight?”

“I changed my mind.” Geralt all but growled at him, trying to stop him asking questions at the sudden and unexpected change of plans.  
The young man gulped, but his scent did not turn to sour like it did when humans were afraid of him, nor he took a step back from the Witcher suddenly looming over him.

Curious.

Not even some seasoned warriors weren’t at least a little “wary” of him, treating him like a half feral beast, almost soiling their breeches when he got too close to them for their comfort. Maybe the bard was a lackwit. Not truly understanding that if the Witcher wanted he could kill him without breaking a sweat? Or was otherwise mentally damaged that so far did not show any outer signs.

“All right, ehm.... what would you like me to do?”

Geralt scowled at him, the puffed up silk shirt doublet was disguising the younger man’s true frame, but it was pretty obvious that he lacked muscles. His artisan hands thin, and there was probably as much strength in them as was in a real songbird he tried to emulate with all his might all the time.

“Go and bring some wood for the camp fire. Enough to last us until morning.”

The bard did not seem to be truly bothered nor surprised at the task that would probably cost him quite an amount of strength.  
“All right, don’t worry I will get enough. What are you going to do in the meantime?”

The little song bird had asked carefully, probably trying to not bring Geralt’s wrath upon his head.  
Good he was learning fast that there would be absolutely no coddling.

“I am going to catch us some dinner, there is no reason to waste supplies.”  
Without further ado the Witcher took a small crossbow from the saddle bag and left their improvised campsite disappearing between the trees.

Putting as much distance, between himself and those wide open and utterly trusting cornflower eyes as possible.  
Refusing to feel any guilt about the fruitless task he just ordered the bard to do. There was no possible way they would be able to keep the fire going for more than two hours maybe even less.

The air humidity was slowly but rapidly rising and the upcoming heavy rain it promised to bring would douse the flames out pretty quickly. Meaning it would make pretty miserable night for them both without any additional heat and forcing them eat a cold dinner consisting of some hard cheese and bread.

Any animal hunted down by the Witcher tonight would have to be cooked after the rain stopped.  
That would not happen for at least half of the night.

By the noon tomorrow the bard would be gone and Gerald would not be forced to another repeat performance of that annoying ditty about tossing him a coin. The stupid song has been stuck in the Witcher’s mind in a loop for the last several hours. Its melody too catching and rhythmic to forget, no matter how much he had tried.

The previous guilt quickly evaporating in the wake of that thought.

Just few more hours, not even a whole day and he would finally have his peace back. The little lark would choose to flutter off to sing somewhere else, leaving him be.

  
Geralt didn’t need his company.

  
He needed absolutely no one and it would stay that way.

  
Forever.


	2. A Storm is Coming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You should really be careful what you wish for.

By the time Geralt finally returned to where he had left Roach tied up surrounded by lush grass a reward for the hard day of work, carrying his large frame in the addition to his gear to graze under a tree, so she would be sheltered by the thick branches from the upcoming rainstorm, the first few drops of water had already started to fall from now completely overcast skies with heavy dark grey rain clouds. 

The sun must have almost surely set by now, and full darkness of the night had been approaching rapidly.

Carrying three plump squirrels, carelessly thrown over his right shoulder, Geralt headed towards the centre of the makeshift campsite and took a quick assessment of his immediate surroundings.

Fortunately for the Witcher, it was still mostly bright as a day, thanks to his yellowish cat-like eyes, that allowed him to be able to see even in almost total darkness.  
It was one of his favorite traits he had gained after surviving the Trial of the Grasses, even when it made ordinary humans to look askance at him. Along with his superior strength and faster than normal healing, of course. 

Those had also proved very useful and necessary for his continuous work as a professional monster hunter for hire.

He had lost the count over the years, number of times his enhanced sight literally saved his life, when he had been forced to fight with creatures that preferred to dwell deep inside caves and abandoned mines, instead of thick forests or disgusting smelling swamps.

Fortunately they seemed to have become more rare, as the years went by. Last time he fought with one was over ten years ago and hopefully it would be at least another ten before he will have to again. 

It was not something he had wished to reenact any time soon. 

His left thigh still carried the mark that the beast left as a parting gift to him in her final throes of agonizing death before finally succumbing to the wounds his silver sword had caused. Its flesh sizzling like it was splashed by acid, thanks to the reaction to the material the weapon was made of.

Geralt returned from his thoughts of long won hard battles back to the present.

The bard was unfortunately still there too.

The Witcher could see him struggling, with cheeks reddened out of hard work. Light sheen of sweat upon his brow. Dragging another armful of broken up branches and adding them to an already sizeable pile created next to the fire pit. Before feeding some of them to the flames themselves, that were already fully roaring and casting the clearing in various shades of orange color. 

The fire pit itself seemed well done. Slightly dug out hole surrounded by larger stones to prevent flames from spreading where they did not belong, further insured by a removal of grass that was growing all around the clearing in the immediate area so it would not catch ablaze as well. 

Good.

Geralt didn’t expect him to also be able in the time he had been gone, build the fire secure the sufficient amount of firewood and pull out their bed rolls next to it as well. 

It seemed that the little Song Bird must have done this few times in the past already. Shame all his effort would be ruined shortly by the upcoming storm. The Witcher had seen worse built campsites in his life by soldiers that should know better.

It also unfortunately meant that the annoying Lark had to be at least somewhat accustomed to sleeping outside.

That was…. not so good.

Since it meant that driving him off, from following on the Path with the Witcher on his travels while probably singing all the time, could prove to be more complicated and would probably also require larger effort on his part, than Geralt had previously expected.

Jaskier had finally noticed his return. Startling suddenly and dropping the last piece of wood into the flames by surprise, which caused a cloud of sparks going up in the process like an angry swarm of fireflies. 

The human’s already fast heartbeat skyrocketed with fear. An instinct all living beings possessed when facing a dangerous predator ready to pounce and kill its prey. The primal beast hiding under his by mutagens bleached skin, felt a moment of satisfaction at the reaction, before the bard realized who it was exactly that approached him and actually grinned. 

Grinned with relief. 

Like the sight of a Witcher carrying dead animals was a good thing.

Geralt was more and more inclined to believe in his previous theory about the real possibility, that the injury from the elves caused some kind of damage to the little Lark’s mind.

No one smiled at Witchers. No one. Not even people that desperately needed them or wanted something.

“Oh you are back. I wasn’t sure how long you were going to be away….. And you brought us a dinner! Great, I´m starving. Do you want me to help with something else?”

Geralt blinked few times, unused to the interaction with beings that actually spoke back at him, unlike Roach or an occasional doe. Trying to process all the new questions practically thrown his way. The eagerness was clearly visible on Jaskier’s face as he had asked the question even if he seemed to be tired from the work Geralt had assigned to him.

“No.”

The Witcher growled. The air around him almost vibrating. He was starting to feel like constantly kicking an eager puppy that just wanted to be scratched and petted on the head by its new master.

Not that he would ever do such thing in the first place, since petting small soft furry and fragile creatures was not pastime a Witcher should be cultivating. 

Ever.

Blue eyes fell a little bit at the hostile deep sound that was aimed at him with the short cutting answer.

“Oh .... ehm all right then. I will ...I will just sit here. Do you think it’s going to rain badly? It didn’t look it when we first stopped here. Shame there was not enough time to get to the village. The one you talked about staying at earlier.”

Geralt growled again. Not liking to be reminded that he had done so on purpose.  
Maybe he could have waited for few more days for the bard to leave on his own afterwards. Luring the younger man into a false pretence, before letting the weather or close encounter with an actual monster and not just half starved Elves and Silvan to chase him away. 

Too late to change his mind now. They were both stuck here overnight and probably until mid morning as well, depending on whether the wind would be strong enough to carry the heavy dark clouds away sooner.

“But on the other hand it gives me a good opportunity to compose some more songs about your past exploits?”

The Witcher wasn’t quite sure if the question was directed to him or if the younger man was just talked to himself, trying to decide his future actions. It turned out it was the former because the round blue eyes turned to him and kept staring like the white haired man was some kind of an interesting specimen in alchemist laboratory.

“What’s the hardest monster to kill and when did you personally manage to do so?”

Knowing he would have to eventually say something, or the questions would be just thrown his way anyway at a fast rate of succession he had wanted to deter. 

“Kikimore.”

Jaskier frowned, scrunching up his nose as well, trying to probably dig out a half forgotten memory about the origin of the word.

“Never heard of them, how did you kill it?”

“I stabbed it.”

That answer gained him a dramatic roll of the cornflower blue eyes and half suffering expression.

“Details… are…. important, my newly acquired friend. I cannot compose a song about it and increase your reputation to the better, if I don’t have enough to go on.”

“I stabbed it, with a sword. To the head.”  
Geralt elaborated dryly.

“Ahhhh...my poor Muse. This would barely make a single verse. Wait how it could....Oh I have it.....And then the mighty Kikimore raised its ugly head, but before it could pounce. The White Wolf stabbed through it, and continued to do so. Until it was dead....eh need some more polishing of the rhymes. Do Kikimores even pounce? And how do they exactly look anyway?”

Geralt grinded his teeth, truly wishing one would “pounce” right now here and eat the bard whole in a single swallow, boots and all so he would stop asking about it. The killing of the Kikimore started the whole debacle in the Blaviken. And he hated to be reminded of that incident. Since he didn’t actually like the unfairly given moniker Butcher it had gained him.

Maybe inside the monster’s stomach the chattering Lark would have a close enough view of details he wanted so much. It would definitely muffle the sound of his voice at least.

The Witcher ignored the further chattering but it did not seem to cease or even slow down, the one sided conversation anyway.

As the rain got heavier and heavier the questions and the Jaskier’s talking grew quieter and more infrequent. The weather turned even worse than Geralt had anticipated, when he first got the idea to stop here early because of it.

The cold rivulets of water were pouring from the above like someone decided to throw full buckets of water out of the clouds. Right onto heads of unfortunate beings that were forced to live down below them on the ground. The wind was also picking up. Making the colds sprays of water hit them unexpectedly from the sides as well and not just from the top. 

Even after finding a shelter next to Roach under the largest oak tree in the vicinity, the cold water was still soaking into their clothing. Their previous campsite had long ago turned into a mudslide with large puddles of dirty brown liquid and kept growing constantly at a fast rate as well.

The Witcher fortunately had at least a partial solution for that, in the form of a large oil skin that could be secured between the lower hanging branches creating an improvised shelter to keep them all out of the worst of it.

The ground where the copse of the trees grew was slightly elevated so the mud and the puddles would not be able to reach them, unless it continued to pour for at least three days straight.

Geralt took it from its protective linen cover, where he was storing the oilskin during sunnier days and unfolded, fully tied from its ends to the branches securely with thick pieces of high quality strings it was able to create sort of a roof over them all.

Roach included. She was the only innocent true victim here of the Witcher´s fully conscious choice.

The fire that had been roaring strongly less than a half an hour ago, was now only a distant memory. Fortunately horses were hot blooded and had relatively thick hides suited to protect them from the elements. 

The Witcher had used few handfuls of the dry grass that was growing right under the tree trunk so it was protected from the rain, to rub the worst of the moisture, out of the horses dark brown coat. The mare did not seem to suffer in their current predicament. Only occasionally snorting and twitching her ears as small clouds of steam were rising from her large body as the leftover water was already evaporating from her, leaving her mostly dry. 

The horse’s human shaped companions were not so lucky. 

Geralt not truly bothered by the temperature but hating the feeling of damp linen touching directly to his skin and chafing, quickly changed into another more thick woolen shirt, leaving the wet one he had been wearing tried to a branch outside their small island of mostly dry land. Wool even when wet could still keep some warmth unlike the other materials.

The rain would wash the other one in the meanwhile. Not as thoroughly as if he had used soap, but good enough for at least several more days of wearing.

Turns out, that the little Lark’s only other remaining outfit, made out of silks and ribbons, this time in various shades of reds, instead of the soft warm shades of blues, like he was wearing like now, was also completely drenched. 

The fabrics were not of a low quality by any means, even when not suited for this particular weather. Which probably suggested noble birth or upper class merchant family. The Witcher was leaning toward the bard being noble and probably a second son of some wealthy family, judging by his courtly manners he had let slip mostly unconsciously so far.

The fancy looking outfits belonged to a lord’s decorated marble halls not the forests in the middle of nowhere. The puffed up sleeves with embroidery now hung low and heavy as they were soaked with water. Making the bardling look like a half drowned miserable bird whose feathers had been drenched in a cold water.

Geralt turned his face away from him and allowed his lips turn into a half amused smirk at the sight. Jaskier’s forlorn look at his soaked clothes seemed overly dramatic.

The flippery would probably never be the same even after being completely dry again. Silk and water did not mix very well. At least according to a half forgotten rather vague memory of someone mentioning it to Geralt. In a conversation he was not paying very close attention. He never did when it came to such frivolous things as fashion and color coordinating outfits. Clothes main purpose was protect from the elements not to try to imitate peacocks.

Must have been that shopkeeper he had spoke to shortly about two weeks ago, when he was buying his new shirts. After the last one being ruined by Leshen stomach contents. 

He did not mind the green colored stains too much, over the years he wore much worse and smellier. 

That was the least of his problems. 

Unfortunately it turned out that the dried fluid that soaked into the fabric and refused to wash out, glowed in the dark when struck by moonlight for some reason, which was rather unpractical for sneaking upon a dangerous prey. 

Making him way too visible from practically miles away, and an easy target. 

The rain right now seemed so heavy it would probably wash those stains right out. But since the said shirt was already turned into rags for oiling his swords, thinking about it further was a rather moot point. Even when there was currently nothing else to do right now.

They would have to sit under the cover for at least several more hours before the rains finally stops. It would hopefully make for one very miserable and memorable night for little Song Birds covered in silks, that did not know any better than to follow big bad mean Witchers that wanted to be left alone. 

The bard could not even play his new and already so much adored lute to pass the time, since it was carefully hidden and secured in its waterproof case so it would not be permanently damaged by getting damp. Not that the younger man would be able to play it in the first place, judging by how much he was currently shivering. 

Even his fingers were jerked by an occasional twitch.

The sound of chattering teeth could be loudly heard over the noises created by the falling water splashing mud all around them. 

It was pretty amusing to watch, how much he had tried to clench his jaws together to stop their movement and the sound it created and kept hopelessly failing at it. His lower lip quivering like toddlers that were told there will be no sweets for him but instead just boiled vegetables for dinner.

The bard had looked like he had not been enjoying the experience of how the life of a monster hunter could look like.

The Witcher was half basking in his unwanted company’s misery, and half meditating while leaning with his back resting on a dry tree bark. Meditation could not technically replace a full night of sleep, but his body could theoretically go for days without succumbing to the need to rest fully. It helped him to clear his thoughts and pass time at least.

The hours flew by quickly afterwards, but there was still large part of the night left until dawn would finally came.

The clacking sounds became less amusing, when Geralt noticed with a half confused frown, that the color of the Jaskier’s lips started to match more and more his cornflower blue eyes and so did his fingertips.

The Witcher did not understand why.

It was not even mid harvest time and so far the temperatures did not plummet to freezing.

During their training, they had been taught several basic lessons, about how to take care of injured victims of the monsters they would slay in the future. It was quite rare, but it could happen from time to time. 

Sometimes when a monster wiped out a larger human settlement to feed, it could leave an occasional victim alive.

Mostly out of reason that it already gorged itself upon the human flesh of the unfortunate souls’ close relatives, and was keeping the rest alive as a food stock for later dinner. 

The lessons were pretty rudimentary at best. Mostly focusing on how to bandage a wound or stop bleeding the fastest way possible, so the injured person could be brought to the closest local healer, or even a mage if the wounds were severe enough to be saved. 

None of those lessons unfortunately applied now. And Geralt’s vague knowledge of human ailments was clearly not deep enough as was now needed.

There was only one occasion when they were informed, about an injuries that could be caused out of cold.

The lesson was about Ice Whirvens that mostly lived on tops of large mountains with permanent caps of snow. Whole year along. That did not disappear even during the hottest summers. Their chosen habitat insured that not many have been troubling human populations, but occasionally some livestock went missing from the higher placed pastures so Witchers were hired to dispatch the pests.

They were some kind of subspecies of dragons or at least a very distant cousins of them. The main differences between the two species were only one pair of lower legs instead of all four like dragons had and claws at the end of their wings instead of arms. With breath so cold it could cause almost burn like injuries and turning their victim’s limbs blue or black. 

In those cases the afflicted person’s life could be saved by amputation of the blackened parts of the body. Mostly fingers or toes, occasionally an ear but sometimes it required to take whole limbs as hands or feet. 

If the bard lost his fingers it would be like Geralt loosing his sword hand. One handed Witcher would be pretty useless and not be able to survive for long. A fingerless musician would starve to death after a while, unable to make enough coin by just singing without being accompanied by an instrument. 

The people in pubs were very picky crowds after backbreaking work during the day, usually very hard to please. On more than one occasion he had personally witnessed someone being belted by rotten vegetable instead of being paid for the entertainment.

He could not allow that to happen. 

The little Lark might be annoying but he done nothing to anyone nor to the Witcher to earn such fate. He had not truly wished any kind of harm upon Jaskier. No matter how much he had silently joked about it in the privacy of his thoughts. 

There were much more deserving humans for that living in the world. True monsters hiding under a thin masks pretending being normal average citizens of the Continent. 

The shivering Song Bird´s only supposed crime, that was sitting only few feet away from him, was just trying to follow Geralt around. 

But it was not that cold right?

There was no ice anywhere, just wind and rain. Nor attacking Whirvens either.

It did not make any sense. 

Jaskier was also swaying slightly while he was sitting on a raised up tree root like he was drunk. Eyes barely focusing, the same way someone´s were when they had overindulged, on at least a dozen ales. 

Which the Witcher knew for a fact was not the truth. Unless he had done so while the little Song Bird was alone at the camp and even if he have done that it would be noticeable on his breath. And after a short while it would also start to reek from his skin, like from an over ripened fruit in the summer.

Geralt wasn’t sure what to do, except maybe dressing the bardling into dry clothing and try to warm him back up again. 

The Witcher still had two of his own clean tunics inside his saddle bags. But he was currently wearing the thickest one. Monster hunting business required sometimes several clean ones during a week. A large part of his hard earned coin went regularly to replace his ruined wardrobe or parts of armor.

The Drowner’s blood was very hard to get out of fabrics. So was any other kind of blood for the matter including Geralt´s own.

Once it dried it would set, staining the piece of clothing permanently either black or rusty brown, depending on its original source. So it had to be rinsed still wet if he wanted to wear it again. 

Leaving him no other choice than to switch to another piece of clothing or stay bare chested. With the monster blood often being acidic or poisonous, it was a safer option to strip it.

With his scared back, shoulders and belly for everyone to see, he opted for the former option. Since he tried to not be called monster, as much as possible. For some reason it still bothered him from time to time. Especially if it came from someone he was not expecting it from. 

So far Jaskier hadn’t made him feel like that. 

Even when the Witcher insulted him or his singing, or both in a same sentence.

Geralt’s clothing would be too big for the skinny bard with long coltish limbs and not an ounce of spare fat anywhere on his body, but he had nothing else to offer him. There was no time to be picky, not that the little song bird seemed to be in any kind of shape to protest his upcoming change in the style of his wardrobe. 

Hopefully it would turn his lips back to that cherry like color they previously were. The Witcher had no other idea how to remedy the situation he had caused by his own carelessness with his companions health. 

Unwanted or not, he gave his oath to protect when needed, after graduating from the School of the Wolf and gaining his medallion and the swords in the process. It seemed that he had failed somehow or even was the one that caused the injury in the first place out of ignorance.

Geralt’s fingers started to open the small cloth covered buttons that were keeping Jaskier’s soaked doublet buttoned up. It took him longer than he wanted, and finally loosing last shed of his patience he had ripped the remaining few of them off. Quickly striping the now slightly blue skinned and no longer shivering song bird. 

The bard did not utter a single protest at the rough treatment of his surely expensive garments. That was a truly worrying sign if nothing else. The Witcher took off his shirt again now heated by his skin and put it on the much smaller man. 

Geralt had been right earlier about the doublet and the clothing under it adding wideness to the bard’s thin shoulders. He had a slender not heavily muscled physique of a runner. Fabric of the woolen shirt he had dressed him in as fast as possible would be able to be wrapped around his slight stature at least twice if not more. Making him look like a child he had not been so long ago dressing up in someone else clothes pretending to be all grown up.

The Witcher not caring about his own state of undress since the weather was truly not affecting him that much, started to rub the chilled limbs of the half unconscious little Lark trying to increase the circulation somehow. 

The human’s heart started to slow down in the last half an hour almost matching his own. 

Probably not a good sign.

Geralt increased his efforts hurling insults one after another at himself inside his own mind as he all but cradled the limp body of the bard to his chest trying to press his warmer skin to him at as many places as possible. While pressing the bards now dry clothed back onto Roaches warm belly that was rising with her each deep regular breath. 

Trapping the frail small figure between their two larger and much warmer frames. 

Praying to the Melitele or whomever else was willing to listen to a mutated half monster half human, for the storm to stop now so he could get him to the village they were supposed to be at by now if it wasn’t for him and his foolishnes. 

Now he could not do so until the rain stopped. 

The flimsy oil skin was protecting them a little bit but if they tried to leave its cover even both riding atop of Roach at full speed it would take simply too long to get to the nearest inn. 

Jaskier would probably not survive such a journey. The woolen shirt would be soaked again in matter of heartbeats and leach all the warmth Geralt was able to rub back into his chilled skin. He could not take such a risk. So he had to wait for the rain to stop, just like he had been doing for several hours now, but for entirely different reasons.

The weather mocked him. 

There was no other way to describe it. The clouds [comma here] heavy and thick as before making the night sky look even more ominous than it would normally be. Not a single star in sight just inky blackness. Lightings striking from time to time lighting everything for a single moment before turning the heavens dark again with echoing thunder in their wake. Not giving a single inch in its intensity. 

The gods must have been laughing, probably bent in half at waist for the irony of it all. Mocking him with the heavy cold water that kept falling from the above. 

Apparently too dangerous for humans to be exposed for long.

Because it seemed that he would be rid of the little blue eyed Song Bird before the dawn just like he purposefully planned for most of the day.

His foolish carelessly thrown silent wish fulfilled to the letter. 

He had asked for “forever” after all.

And now it seemed like he was going to get it, no matter what.


End file.
